Keep Your Eyes Shut
by The Retro Future
Summary: Written from John's point of view. When he can't blog or talk about certain frustrations he has about Sherlock he is forced to seek an alternative route. A short PWP Solo for the most part.
1. Keep Your Eyes Shut

I don't think I had ever seen a man quite as beautiful as my flat mate, which if you really think about it is an odd sentence. Most men aren't what most people call 'beautiful.' Unless you are talking about some of those convincing drag queens, but that's a different story really. Still, there was just something that bordered on ethereal about him. It's more frustrating than anything really. I mean, it's not like I can type this kind of stuff up on my blog. Oh god, no. That would just be bad. No doubt Mycroft would text me before I hit enter and I'd never be able to look him in the eye again. Let alone Sherlock, Sarah, Molly or the entire police force. They all read it so, that won't be happening.

I think he does it on purpose, trying to frustrate me as if daring me to bring up any questions about his sexual orientation simply so he could tell me he was married to his work again. That's not even a real answer! I mean he has to have someone that he at least finds somewhat attractive in the slightest. Everyone does. Okay, maybe I'm sounding close minded, but, it's highly improbable.

It's just, the way he looks at me, the back of his thumb running idly along his lip. He says he's thinking. I suppose I'm supposed to assume that it's about work but, I can't help but second guess it. It's all too often he's staring 'blankly' at me. I'm almost positive he's mentally undressing me. I think the part that bothers me the most is that I like it. Even worse than that is I don't think I'd mind so much if it wasn't just his eyes undressing me.

What am I even saying?

Sometimes I just need some outlet. I can't talk to anyone, God forbid I even try talking to Sherlock about it. He'd manage to make me feel like an idiot, which he has already reassured me I am (but that's beside the point). I've already gone over the blog position. What else is there left but this? I mean by all rights I should be ashamed of myself. I really should have more decency than this.

I can't help it though. The way that damned purple shirt clings to his form and at the same time is loose enough to accent that neck of his. The things I would do to his neck if I didn't think he'd lose all respect for me. So I slip upstairs to my bedroom early some evenings and sometimes if I let myself relax enough I can imagine that it's his hand instead of mine that's pushing my trousers and pants out of the way.

That it's his fingers curled around me and coaxing the smallest little sounds out of throat. If I keep my eyes closed I can almost feel my skin tingle under his imaginary gaze. Just the thought of him even watching me do this is enough sometimes. Just imagining him standing in the doorway watching and studying the details of how my hand strokes over my own skin. How I know the little things that still can make me shiver and how my thumb passes over my head to spread the little bit of pre-cum that had gathered there.

I wonder what he'd be thinking as my free hand clutched the pillow beside my head. Would he find me as beautiful as I find him? Would he be fascinated with the way my lips part and my brow furrowed as I was driving myself closer to the brink of climax? Would he even be flattered how I breathlessly mutter his name as I do finally come?

I suppose I'll never know. Sherlock Holmes is not a person who was easy to read. I suppose I wouldn't be so fascinated by him if that was the case. Still, one night, I wouldn't really mind opening my eyes to see him in my doorway, that small wry smile quirking his lips to one side of his face.

Yeah, that would be nice.


	2. Open Your Eyes

I really need to stop making a habit out of this. One day Sherlock is going to hear me or, god forbid, Mrs. Hudson. Not that I think I'm loud enough that you'd hear it down on the ground floor. I do take care to be as quiet as possible. My poor pillow has suffered the fate of muffling my groans on more occasions than I'd like to admit to.

I had one hand holding onto my headboard as if that could actually ground me a little, just to make myself last so I could sort of suspend my fantasy in time. I know that sounds utterly ridiculous, but it makes sense in the middle of the act, besides no one was watching.

"Open your eyes John."

Christ my imagination was good at imitating Sherlock's voice. My eyes shot open and quickly flicked to my left where his voice had come from. There stood my companion at my bedside, eyes just studying me. Needless to say I panicked and scrambled to at least pull the sheets over me. A rather unmanly squeak left my lips before I could do anything about it.

"Sherlock! Jesus Christ! Didn't anybody teach you to knock?"  
>He was smirking. Smirking! Of course he'd smirk at me like he knew I'd been doing this the whole time. Smirking at me like he could read that I had been thinking about him this whole time. Fuck he probably could.<br>I sat up a bit in bed trying to compose myself a little but my colleague slowly reached a hand out to move the sheets off of me. He let the fabric slip from his fingers and I could feel his eyes tracing the contours of my skin. He couldn't be serious. He couldn't seriously be thinking about- well, obviously he could since he was getting down on his knees. I…certainly didn't see this as his reaction, not that I'm complaining, but I was expecting to be utterly mortified. But right now I am embarrassed, yes, defiantly that but also very confused and the smallest hint of shyness.

He pulled me to the edge of the bed and slid my legs over his shoulders. I couldn't even find the will to question let alone protest any of this. I did hate to make it so obvious that I had been dreaming and craving this. Sherlock had settled me the way he wanted and then… his tongue, good lord, his tongue. Oh god, he's good at that. Well... of course he'd be good at that. I have no reason how he'd even know what he's doing, but of course he'd be the bloody fucking king of it. Probably read the Kama Sutra cover to cover because he was bored.

"John, Shut up. You're thinking too much about this."

"Of course you'd say that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at me. If any two people were to have a domestic while being intimate it would be us, wouldn't it? His tongue would press flat against me and drag painfully slowly from root to tip over my length. I found myself bend forward, hands clutched against his shoulders, my face buried into his hair. It's an odd feeling, not remembering how to breathe properly. I was reduced to small little hiccups of breath, gasping for oxygen and yet afraid that if I started breathing normally this spell would break and Sherlock would be gone.

I admit it, he had me whimpering, praising and worshiping his mouth. His hands held onto my hips to make sure I didn't buck up too harshly into his mouth. I uncurled from around him and supported myself back on my left hand, my right moving to my mouth so I could bite down on my knuckles in order to muffle another rather embarrassing sound. I didn't care particularly and with the hum of a response I got from my flat mate (lover?) led me to believe he had enjoyed it.

Christ where was this going to leave us? Was this a onetime thing or was I just going to have to get used to this happening on a regular basis. I mean, I suppose I could adapt to that sort of thing- My train of thought was cut when the warmth of his mouth left me leaving me to give an undignified squeak.

"Sherlock!"

"You're thinking too much again."

"For the love of God, Sherlock!"

He just looked at me.

"Alright, alright! I'll stop just please"

I felt as Sherlock's hands shifted under me to pull me forward a little more and he let his lips rub the underside of my erection. My teeth were soon digging painfully into my knuckles again and my hips tried to shutter forward to somehow get back into his mouth. All I really know is this beat the shit out of anything I had imagined the many nights I had been here in my room alone.

Screw it, I didn't care anymore who heard me and that felt way too good. I let out a proper groan and lifted my hand to shift through my companion's hair. Fun fact, I have a very filthy tongue in these situations, so it seems. It also seems that Sherlock finds that rather amusing and let me tell you something when a man with a voice as low as that laughs, he rumbles.

I tried to choke out some form of warning and I had looked down. Sherlock seemed to understand and he flicked his eyes up to lock with mine and he winked. Jesus such a simple thing shouldn't look that filthy. Letting myself unravel my hips tried to buck forward as I came before letting myself flop back on the bed and lazily shift my fingers through Sherlock's hair as he lazily lapped at me to clean me up.

My hand fell limp on my thigh as he pulled away and I just pressed back into my bed. Sherlock's had traced lazily up over my abdomen and chest, his nails causing me to shiver in the process. I could live in this moment forever, by body was tingling with oversensitivity due to overstimulation. Oh it was beautiful. If there had only been a way to stop time.

"Open your eyes, John. Don't think we're done just yet."

Well, about freezing that moment? I think I may take that back because from the sounds of it living in the present should be pretty damn good.


End file.
